The hairy neighbor

My name is Diego, I’m 28 years old, and I live in an old building downtown, one of those with a gated elevator and hallways that smell of old wood and freshly brewed coffee. I had been on the fifth floor for three years, enjoying my solitude and my routine: gym in the mornings, remote work in the afternoons, and the occasional night out. I wasn’t looking for anything serious. Until he arrived.

His name was Víctor. Forty-five years old, recently divorced, according to what the gossiping neighbors on the third floor told me. He moved his boxes on a Saturday morning. I was going down for a run and saw him carrying a sofa by himself, the muscles in his arms swollen under a tight gray T-shirt already soaked with sweat. He was tall, easily 6'3", broad-shouldered, with a chest that stood out like a wall. But what struck me most was the hair: thick, dark, peeking out from the collar of his shirt and covering his forearms like wild fur. He had a three-day beard, short hair with some gray at the temples, and black eyes that seemed to pierce right through you.

When he saw me, he gave a slow, almost predatory smile.

“New neighbor,” he said in a deep, hoarse voice. “Víctor. Give me a hand with this?”

I helped him. Our arms brushed as we went up the stairs (the elevator was full of boxes). His scent hit me: clean sweat, wood, a touch of expensive cologne. I felt an immediate heat in my groin. He noticed it too. His eyes dropped for a second to my running pants and came back to my face with an arched eyebrow. We said nothing more, but the tension remained floating in the air like static electricity.

From that day on, everything changed.

I started running into him more than usual. In the mornings, when I went out for a run, he was coming back from training. Tight shirt, shorts that showed thick, hairy thighs. He greeted me with a “Good morning, Diego” that sounded more like a promise than a courtesy. At night, when I came back from the supermarket, I would find him smoking on the sixth-floor balcony, right above mine. Sometimes he leaned on the railing and looked straight at me. I pretended not to notice, but my cock hardened every time.

The tension grew for weeks. Small brushes in the entrance hall. Long looks in the corridor. Once he caught me coming out of the shower wearing only a towel and stood in the doorway of his apartment, staring at me without hiding it. He smiled. I quickly went into my apartment, heart pounding, and masturbated thinking of that hairy chest crushing me against the wall.

One rainy afternoon, the elevator became the trigger.

I had gone down to pick up a package. The sky was black and rain was pouring down. As I was going up, the elevator doors opened on the sixth floor and there was Víctor, soaked, with a white T-shirt clinging to his body and showing every detail: the large pecs, the defined abs, and that blanket of black hair running d...